


an endless road

by januarys



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gen, michael takes a road trip because he feels like it, trevor misses him through the form of snapmats and drunken messages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarys/pseuds/januarys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael takes a road trip around San Andreas, and finds beauty in a place he couldn't stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an endless road

**Author's Note:**

> I finished GTA 5 the other day and was completely floored by how fucking incredible it was. Michael is my all-time favourite character, so I wanted to do him some justice with this story. Any geographical errors are because of the creative license I don't own, and any grammatical/spelling errors are also my own. I also recommend listening to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8puEIliGOg) song as you read this. I feel it fits in well with the overall atmosphere of it all.

Michael fucking loves Los Santos.

He loves the crazy fucks who impart their road rage onto unassuming citizens, the fact it doesn’t matter wherever you stand among the skyscrapers because you’ll always catch a glimpse of the technicolour sunset, and he really fucking loves the dingy cinemas showing that French/Italian art-house bullshit he finds himself relating to _really well._

Michael loves Del Perro Pier. He loves Vespucci Beach and the worn bike trail that’s disappearing into the sand. He loves that tiny tattoo parlour right next to the Oriental Theatre on Vinewood Boulevard (aside from complete satisfaction of the knowledge that Lazlow is walking around with a dick scratched onto his chest permanently, its also the place where Michael decided to say _fuck it_ and tattoo that cliche-as-fuck rose on the side of his neck, much to Trevor’s delight).

He loves and hates Murrieta Heights because it’s nice but it’s not _him_ , and he fucking _loves_ Vinewood Hills because Michael can see all of the city that he adores from Franklin’s balcony when the kid calls him up to chill out.

It’s even more beautiful at night, all those lights shining like a beacon at sea, rising to the sky and taking all the stars with it. On New Years Eve it was just Michael, Trevor and Franklin playing poker and getting shit-faced until midnight when the fireworks started, from Vespucci to Lower Vinewood (and Trevor let off some sparks too because he lost his hand and flipped the table into the pool because he’s a crazy-ass fucker like that).

Los Santos is home, Los Santos is _everything_. Still, Michael decides as he’s ordering the usual at that coffee shop just down the road from his house, that while home is where the money is and the money is Los Santos, the sentimental old fool residing underneath his Ponsonby suits really wants to see San Andreas without the cops chasing his tail for once.

Michael pitches the idea to Trevor one night when the family’s out blowing his UD cut. Trevor laughs like the maniac he is.

“You’re a soft prick Mikey, that’ll never change,” he says between breaths and Michael flips him the bird.

“I’m still doing it T, just me and the highway that winds along the state. No cops up my ass and rich billionaire cunts sending their private armies after me,” Michael reaches for another slice of pizza because he really fucking needs it. “‘sides, I need to get the fuck away from your unhygienic ass for a little while.”

Trevor scoffs, clenching his fists. “Oh yeah, like _ten fucking years_ wasn’t enough.” Michael walked right into that one and he willingly takes the barrage of verbal assault thrown at him afterwards, but Trevor claps his shoulder once its finished and makes him swear that he’ll bring back some souvenirs from Paleto Bay.

“Like another million dollars in Cold. Hard. _Cash_ , man!” Trevor beats the wall like a drum as he’s walking out, and Michael laughs all the way to sleep.

So the next day, Michael kisses Amanda goodbye at the crack of dawn, calms Tracey down when she assumes that he’s on the run again, and manages to wake Jimmy up enough to tell him to _be good for fucks sake_ before packing an overnight bag of necessities and roaring down Portola Drive.

The traffic out of Los Santos and onto the freeway is a fucking nightmare and Michael switches between stations before settling on talkback since he’s old enough to get away with it. There’s a stressed family in the car opposite them, the kids in the back screaming their lungs out and the mother swearing profusely at the uncooperative GPS as the father grips the steering wheel tighter with each second.

Michael gets a message from Franklin telling him to _be safe, dog. i’ll hit you up when you’re outside paleto b._ and Trevor sends a SnapMat of him running naked through the casino with the tentative caption of _UR MISSING OUT MIKEY!!!!_ and Michael laughs all the way onto the Great Ocean Highway.

The beachfront houses eventually turn into coastline and Michael stays at a legal speed until the need for food and his general well being become a priority. He pulls over at a fruit stand and eats through a bunch of soft grapes and over-ripe lychees, his suit jacket folded over his arm and the sun shining past his glasses.

Michael turns up the stereo and Phil Collins croons out of the speakers Jimmy insisted on installing, and Michael has it in his right mind to bitch a little more to the kid because the old speakers were _fine_. He takes a quick SnapMat of the coastline, runs it through a colorful filter and sends it to Trevor because he knows the old hipster would like it.

Trevor leaves an angry, expletive voicemail three minutes later and Michael rolls his window down to let the breeze into the stuffy car.

He makes a quick pit stop to take a leak and buy some cheap shirts at the Suburban outlet. The shop assistant eyes the middle aged guy considering bright commercial t-shirts with distaste, and Michael leaves with a new emerald green number that has some clashing yellow circles on the torso and a big ‘fuck you’ to the judgmental prick.

The air turns humid as he’s on the outskirts of Chumash and Michael stops into a small place called Hookies, orders a tall beer and eventually settles on a price with the real estate owner (because he’s got the fucking money so he may as well have more fucking responsibilities).

His shirt sleeves are rolled up because of the heat and the sweaty hair clinging to the back of his neck is a reminder that he needs another hair cut. After an hour, he takes a photo of the Hookies sign and sends it to Franklin who replies back with an _aw hell yeah_ in approval before continuing on.

Night begins to fall after a few more hours of driving and Michael pulls into a cheap motel surrounded by lush forests, and showers off the dirt and aches of the day. He slips on his new shirt and slumps onto the lumpy mattress, messaging both Amanda and Trevor that he’s alright, just tired as fuck. Trevor replies back with a drunken _i fcuking miss u m_ and Michael wishes for a moment that he had brought the psychopath along.

He takes a breath, quickly writes back _I’m sorry_ _T_  before turning off his phone and falling asleep, definitely trying not to think about just how fucking sorry he is.

Michael downs two terrible espressos the next morning and heads on down the freeway. The cars along this road are crazier than before and he almost breaks his steering wheel from beeping at the stupid motherfucker who came into his lane without using his indicator. He tailgates the fucker all the way under the tunnel and beyond, before his new best friend turns off onto the mountain path and far away from Michael.

(He gets another message from Trevor saying _eaaaaasy tiger_ and Michael doesn’t reply).

Mount Chiliad is at his right shoulder for awhile so Michael decides just outside of Paleto Bay to hop on the tram and ride all the way to the peak. He takes a deep breath and almost chokes on how clean the air is, how the view from the top is fucking beautiful at all 360°, and then he really has to catch his breath because everything about this spot right here is fucking amazing.

He settles down on a boulder and waits for the sunset. The wind is rushing through his hair and the sounds of the tourists doesn’t even bother him like it normally does because there’s _this_ right in front of him, the world at his fingertips. For a split second, Michael thinks that all of his opportunities and successes are nothing compared to the mountain slope and the cool wind and everything that is fucking gorgeous about this state.

When sunset comes, Michael snaps a photo, no filter, no caption, and sends it to Trevor. Trevor doesn’t reply and Michael doesn’t think about it when he’s going back down the tramline in the dark.

Michael sleeps in the backseat of his car that night and wakes up with a mighty fine crick in the back of his neck, reminding him that he’s not as young as he used to be. He freshens up in a restroom at a gas station just a few minutes into Paleto Bay, trying not to pay attention to the lines in his brow, the scar on his lip and the circles under his eyes.

He lightly traces the tattoo on his neck, remembering Trevor’s frightening glee as Michael squirmed beneath the needle, and misses the fucker a little more.

He gets breakfast at a little cafe overlooking the bay while his car is getting serviced, and forgoes another haircut because he’s liking the slicked back look. Franklin even said it himself (as he tried to sneak Tracey’s number off Michael’s phone for the umpteenth time). Michael ends up ringing Tracey just because he misses his baby girl and wants to hear her voice, and she’s excited to tell him that college is getting _sooooo_ close and she might need more money for her textbooks, is that okay Daddy? It’s more than okay, Michael says, and I love you millions, before he hangs up and strolls to the bank.

He takes a photo, all sepia and kind of badass, and sends it to both Trevor and Franklin. The latter replies with a simple _good times, man_ while the former gets straight to point and asks where his fucking money is.

(He ends up driving to the cliff-point where Devin burst into flames to take a selfie there. Trevor replies that the camera puts on more than ten-pounds and Michael hates him a little. Queen flares up on the radio though, and he’s a little happier.)

He stays overnight in Paleto Bay, having a few drinks at The Hen House while listening to some stories from the locals there. He keeps a straight face through the recent bank robbery tale but ends up messaging Soloman with an idea for a gritty action-noir film about (surprise, surprise) bank robbers. Soloman replies that he’ll _fuck that Tarantino fella up the ass with this film_ and Michael walks along the edge of the Bay after midnight, buzzed and fucking pleased to the brim.

Eventually he leaves Paleto Bay in the rearview mirror and drives all the way past Mount Gordo, making a mental note to take Amanda there for some yoga soon, and driving straight through Grapeseed. He gets a snack and a packet of cigarettes at a rest stop, ignores the fact that Trevor hasn’t messaged him so far that day, before continuing on to the edge of the Sandy Shores.

The Sandy Shores was the fucking bane of his existence a few weeks ago but now that Michael has the free will to do whatever the fuck he pleases now, he doesn’t mind the place. He keeps the windows up because sand is getting everywhere and he likes this suit thank you very much. Even with the AC at full-blast, there’s sweat dripping from his goddamn balls and he ends up down to his damp wife-beater.

The cars have thinned out by now and it’s mainly trucks passing him by so Michael pulls up on the side of the road and watches the day go by. Fatigue is hard hitting and before he knows it, he’s fast asleep and plagued by the usual dreams. By the time Trevor's gutting him with a worn butchers cleaver inside of an alien spacecraft, Michael’s jolted awake and seeing stars instead of sunlight.

Grabbing his suit jacket and any other clothing piece he can find, he clambers out of the front seat and climbs onto the roof of his car. The desert is fucking cold at night but it’s... beautiful.

Shit, it’s _beautiful_.

Trevor was fucking A about this.

There’s the light pollution to the South and some from Grapeseed but the stars are little diamonds and they glitter as though they’re underneath a showcase. Michael lights a cigarette and takes a drag from it, ready for the coughing fit and surprised when it doesn’t come, before resting his head on his hands as he lies back completely.

In that moment, the past twenty years comes to a head. There’s no radio blaring age old rock music, no vibrations from his phone, and no car in sight. It’s just Michael De Santa, Michael _Townley_ , and the endless field of stars before him.

He takes a breath, and lets it go.

_You were right, T. It’s beautiful._

By the time he’s back on the freeway and being careful not to stick too close to the Alamo Sea, Michael is really fucking missing Los Santos. It’s hard to say whether this trip was a journey of discovery, some philosophical bullshit or whether it’s helped him accept his fucked up life as it is, but Michael’s glad that he did it anyway. When he messages Amanda to let her know he’s about an hour from home, he turns the radio up and speeds all the way back to Vinewood. The desert turns into countryside, industrial parks, and then Michael’s left the Senora Freeway to something familiar.

Los Santos explodes into the afternoon skyline with it’s skyscrapers and highways and hidden back-alleys.

Home. He’s motherfucking _home_.

It’s night by the time he’s on Portola Drive and he turns into his familiar driveway with a sense of ease, accomplishment, of _happiness_. When he gets out of the car, grabbing his bag in the passenger seat as he does so, a whistle comes from the side of his garage and Trevor walks out from the shadows.

“You’re a creepy motherfucker, T,” Michael says as he hefts his bag over his shoulder. He’s probably grinning like a loon but it’s nothing Trevor hasn’t seen before.

Trevor waves his hands around, a manic expression in his eyes. “Gotta keep the locals interested! Or terrified. I prefer terrified.”

Michael chuckles for a moment before silence falls around them. The lights from his mansion are casting a creepy-ass glow on Trevor’s features, and Michael can see how the past decade has affected his best friend as well. Obviously he’s had his own issues but _fuck_ he missed the guy.

“I wasn’t bullshitting, Trevor,” Michael says quietly, placing his bag down onto the ground and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Trevor shrugs, leaning against the side of the garage. “About what? Be more specific Mikey, my life doesn’t revolve around you and your _glamorous_ little Vinewood.”

“The fucking Sandy Shores you turd,” Michael bites his tongue about Trevor’s last comment. “The Shores are fucking beautiful.”

“More beautiful than this?”

Trevor sweeps an arm out before him, and Michael turns around to see Los Santos and all of its lights breaking through the darkness and winking at them enticingly. The Shores and The Bluffs and even North-fucking-Yankton has nothing on this grand city sprawled before him. Michael wants to do it all over again.

“No,” Michael breathes as he stares into the skyline. “Not quite. Not ever. This is something completely different.”

Trevor ends up standing next to him and staring into the soul of Los Santos. It’s quiet, too quiet for Trevor really. Then after a moment, he bursts out laughing and claps Michael on his shoulder. Hard.

“You’ve turned into a sentimental cunt, Mikey!”

“Fuck you too, princess.”

“Gonna SnapMat another horizon for me?” Trevor prods his belly with childlike inappropriateness.

“Go to hell, you fuck.”

“Taking that as a _yes_.”


End file.
